


Not A Setback

by IndigoNight



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:34:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29224032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoNight/pseuds/IndigoNight
Summary: Clint is out of town, and Bucky is having a rough night. Thank god for late night phone calls.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 2
Kudos: 70
Collections: BBB Special Events





	Not A Setback

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Fire's Here To Stay (I Am Here To Stay)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7960948) by [IndigoNight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndigoNight/pseuds/IndigoNight). 



> This is technically an unnecessary follow up to my fic [The Fire's Here To Say (I Am Here To Stay)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7960948) but it should be able to stand on its own.
> 
> Written as a fill for the [Bucky Barnes Bingo](https://buckybarnesbingo.tumblr.com) Flash Bingo "Angst" square.
> 
> Enjoy!

_Just look at me…_

“Stop it.” His fist slams into the target.

_You don’t have to do this…_

“Stop talking.” Sweat stings his eyes, his chest burns.

_You’re so much better than them…_

“Please, Clint.” He can’t breathe. There’s blood on his knuckles. “Stop.” He slams his fist into the target again. “Talking!” The metal fist bursts through the punching bag with a resounding snap and a crash as the chain snaps and it goes flying across the room.

Bucky’s back slams into the wall and his knees go out, his body sliding limply to sit on the floor. His hair has started to come loose from his ponytail, sticking in sweat soaked curls to his forehead and neck. The familiar burn of overworking his metal arm is racing nauseatingly up and down his back. He closes his eyes and forces himself to suck in a deep breath that makes the sore muscles in his chest strain.

He loses track of how long he sits there, head tilted back against the wall and chest heaving; which is fine, because he isn’t sure how long he’d already been working the punching bag anyway. Clint’s cracked, broken voice is still echoing in his mind, his heart throbbing in time with the pounding in his head. He’s exhausted and yet there’s an intolerable restless energy buzzing under his skin. He bangs his head against the wall once; gently, but he still regrets it immediately. 

It’s been months. He’d thought he was past this.

After a few more breaths he pries his eyes open and starts fishing in his pocket. He notes distractedly that the knuckles of his right hand are scraped raw and smeared with blood; he hadn’t bothered to wrap them and he still doesn’t care, the scrapes will be gone in a few hours anyway. His fingers are also trembling a little, which probably explains why it takes so long to get his phone out of his pocket, but it doesn’t explain why he stares blankly at the screen for so long before carefully typing out a text.

**U up?**

He waits forty-five seconds, regretting sending the text, considering getting up and taking a shower, considering getting up and finding another punching bag.

**No** comes the reply, then three seconds later, **Wats up?**

Bucky’s breath goes out of him with a low rasp, the air catching in his throat as his eyes burn. He swallows and blinks several times. **Just missing u** he types back.

**Aww dork** is the answer, but it’s followed by a kissy face emoji and a purple heart. It draws an unbidden smile to his lips, just like it always does.

He stares at his phone for an indeterminable amount of time, unable to think of anything else to say but unwilling to let the conversation end. He hates that it’s so hard. He hates that he can still see the memory of Clint in chains, bleeding and broken, so sharp and clear in his mind. He hates that he can taste rubber and blood in his mouth. And he really, really hates that Clint is on the other side of the goddamn country right now.

He’s so busy spiraling through his own thoughts that he jumps and almost drops his phone when it rings. He answers the call automatically, lifting the phone to his ear, but discovers that his throat is too tight to form words.

“Hey,” Clint’s voice is soft and warm and a balm to Bucky’s aching heart. “Can’t sleep?” There’s no trace of sleep in Clint’s voice either, and while he’s three time zones behind New York it’s still currently late enough in California that he should definitely be asleep himself.

“Bed sucks,” Bucky grumbles as soon as he can unstick his throat.

Clint chuckles and Bucky has to close his eyes so that the image of Clint’s grin can - at least momentarily - replace the blood and metal pulsing in his mind. “What’s wrong with it?” he asks; behind Bucky’s eyelids he sees one blond eyebrow arch and a little of the tension in his shoulders loosens.

“You aren’t in it,” he answers, both because it’s true and because he knows it will make Clint laugh again.

“Hm, yeah, that does sound like a problem,” Clint hums in agreement. “Well, you’ll be disappointed to know that our trap worked and the crazy arms dealer didn’t manage to murder or kidnap Tony.”

“Shame,” Bucky says dryly. “Does that mean you’re coming home soon?”

Clint sighs and Bucky listens to the rustle of pajamas against bedsheets. “Another day or two probably. One of his lieutenants got away but we’re pretty sure we know where he’s hiding.”

“Do you want some backup, I could-” Bucky has to say it even though he knows what the answer will be.

“I think we’ve got it.” Clint’s silent for a moment and Bucky chews on his lower lip, picking absently at a hole in the knee of his sweatpants. After a few minutes Clint says, “Remember how the doc said we’re too codependent?”

“Yeah.”

“And we said we’d work on that?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re not doing a very good job.”

“Yeah.” Bucky grimaces; he knows how important their therapists’ opinions are, knows how much more fucked up they’d be without them, and is so incredibly grateful. But… “I _like_ being codependent,” he complains.

“It does work for us,” Clint agrees with a huff. “Usually.”

Bucky sighs and tilts his head back against the wall. “I should let you get some sleep,” he says, trying not to let his voice show how reluctant about it he feels.

“You should go get some sleep,” Clint counters.

“You first,” he needles, just to prolong the moment.

“Nu-uh, you first.” A soft smile tugs at Bucky’s lip, an automatic response to Clint’s falsely childish tone. But he does genuinely feel a little lighter, his head aching a little bit less.

“For real though, are you okay?” Clint insists, his voice dipping into a more serious tone again.

Bucky wants to hide from that question, but he knows he can’t. “I will be,” he promises, pushing some of the sweaty hair back from his face with a hand that has finally stopped shaking. “Just a rough night.”

Clint’s quiet for a moment. “I miss you too,” he says softly.

Bucky grins and ducks his head. “God you’re such a sap,” he teases.

“Shut up. I take it back, I hate you.”

“Liar.” His throat almost closes over, he almost can’t say it. But that’s the problem isn’t it? Clint does love him, and Clint does believe in him, it’s just that Bucky doesn’t feel like he deserves it sometimes. “Come home soon?” His voice sounds small in his own ears, and he hates a little bit that it comes out like a question.

“Promise,” Clint agrees.

Bucky lets out a slow, careful breath. “Shove Sam into the Pacific for me?”

Clint laughs. Bucky hears sheets rustle again and he knows that Clint really is ready for bed. “I am still not getting involved in your beef with him.”

“I’ll wear you down eventually,” Bucky threatens. Bucky levers himself to his feet with a groan and carefully stretches his shoulder. “Go to sleep, Clint. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Clint hums. “Night sweetcheeks,” he says, his drowsy voice still managing to be delightfully obnoxious.

“Night boo bear,” Bucky retorts. He’s pretty sure Clint instinctively tries to throw a pillow at him even though they’re on opposite sides of the country.

Bucky continues holding the phone to his ear for a full minute after the call disconnects.

_It’s going to be okay, though, Bucky, it really is…_ his memory plays for him.

He closes his eyes once more and finally takes a deep breath that doesn’t hurt, the muscles of his chest and shoulders finally relaxing.

_We’ll make it through this…_

They had. They are. A couple of bad days doesn’t undo months of hard work and progress. Bucky may never shake the guilt that eats away at the back of his mind sometimes, may never fully believe that he deserves the life that he’s somehow lucked into. But he’ll keep trying.

Because Clint is worth it.

Bucky shoves his phone back into his pocket and heads for the showers, finally shoving away the dark thoughts in favor of plotting how best to greet Clint when he finally gets home.


End file.
